


Welcome to the Lounge

by Kei_LS



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Actually zero communication, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angry Sex, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Feelings, Bruce Wayne is Not Okay, Desk Sex, Gay Sex, Jason Todd is Bad at Feelings, Jason Todd is Not Okay, Light Angst, Lube, M/M, Nothing gets solved, Rough Sex, The Iceberg Lounge, Unresolved Emotional Tension, no one is allowed to have feelings, none of it is addressed or healed, poor communication, the common Gotham man is my unsung hero, there's a lot of bad blood between these two
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:22:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22991653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kei_LS/pseuds/Kei_LS
Summary: Bruce Wayne isn't welcome anywhere in the Iceberg Lounge, not that he'd go, and certainly nowhere Jason Todd is. There's probably a natural solution to this. Of course, neither of them consider 'staying away' to be that solution.
Relationships: Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne
Comments: 4
Kudos: 96





	Welcome to the Lounge

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scandalsavage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scandalsavage/gifts).



> Happy birthday scandal!!!! I genuinely hope this was worth the wait OTL
> 
> (I wish this was 4000 words of porn.... but it's not.)

“Sir? He’s here.”

As it turns out, taking over a night club involved more maintenance than simply shooting the previous owner in the face and kicking back behind the biggest desk. If pressed, Jason wouldn’t have said that Cobblepot was doing anything other than leering after the girls he’d hired and choking on cigars while looking up obscure birds to own. Evidently, he managed to do a lot more than that – even if the list itself wasn’t impressive alone, it was still enough to keep the club running and relaxed enough to attract a wide customer base.

A customer base that Jason had inherited, regardless of the means. It meant constant upkeep, and repair work, and keeping track of stock – both food and drink – and budgeting, and a whole list of menial work that Jason had over the course of the past month gradually passed off to general managers as he vetted through them. He had a budget, and while this wasn’t completely unlike his stint as a crime lord there was a lot less trembling and threatening and a lot more headaches and coffee.

There were some benefits though. Despite, maybe even because of the means he’d used to acquire the place, no one really questioned him on running it. They came to him like they’d gone to Cobblepot, and the adjustment period had been short and sweet enough that Jason still habitually looked over his shoulder for the disgruntled henchmen that was looking to stab him.

Truthfully, he felt like that’s what they’d done today. He had meant to just waste time, skimming through the VIP list and taking note of the new scumbag names he’d have to investigate later. He almost missed it. He _almost_ missed it.

Matches Malone.

Matches Goddamn Malone.

Jason almost doesn’t believe it when he sees it. Bruce Wayne wouldn’t be caught dead here – the flighty beloved starling frequents galas he hosts and the elitist of parties. The Iceberg Lounge was almost exactly the type of place Matches Malone would lurk in.

“Jesus,” he breathes. It gets him a few side-eyes from the hired help, but Jason doesn’t mind that. He likes them aware enough to keep an eye on trouble and smart enough not to ask. It’s a combination that isn’t always easy to find between the Bat, the police, and the general infighting and occasional culling done in Gotham’s seedy underbelly.

 _Matches Malone._ The jerk couldn’t have possibly thought Jason was going to overlook that right? Bruce had a nasty exploitable habit of underestimating Jason in the worst way, but this had to be a call-out. A trap made ready if Jason took the bait. Goddamn _Malone._

“Screw it,” Jason sneers. “Approve the whole freaking list. This one,” Jason taps the name sharply, circles it in red. “Let me know if this one shows.” There are better than even odds that Bruce isn’t expecting entry at all. If Jason still had even a modicum of energy to care, then he might have investigated it. Into him. Get dragged into another roof top beating a little closer to home.

No.

They can both be surprised.

And then, weirdly enough, Jason had forgotten about it. Half a month of getting dragged into other menial tasks and business decisions more public and formally structured than he was ever going to give Cobblepot credit for and a single name had slipped through the cracks. So Jason stares an embarrassing long time before the man grimaces and gingerly shows him security footage of Bruce Wayne – dressed down and sleazy – lurking around a booth and grinning with teeth too perfect at his hostess.

“He’s been asking around about you.”

“Has he,” Jason drawls. Snorts, “Well, then. Bring him on up.”

The order earns him another sharp look. No questions, which is good because even if Jason wanted to answer nosy questions, he’s not sure what he’d say. He’s already off-script. Allowing Bruce Wayne in any incarnation to enter the Lounge kind of goes against his entire mission statement. And still.

He stands in front of his desk, settles back against the heavy wood and waits. It doesn’t take long for them to escort him up, and they’re just as quick to leave the pair of them alone – the giant space abruptly too big and too small for his nerves.

The first thing Jason notices – really notices – is the grey. He’s wearing some tacky silk shirt, and his slacks look cheap, and if Jason’s honest he’s a bit surprised Bruce owns anything that looks like it was picked up from a thrift shop, but that’s all accessory. Persona. Right alongside the loafers and fake gold chain – the thick ring that Jason doesn’t want to get punched by (nowhere near as painful as Batman’s gauntlets doesn’t equate to _not painful_ ). It’s the grey that’s real. Bruce should have dyed it and that’s – weird.

Disarming.

Not off-putting, except in the sense that Jason can’t unsee it.

Thin streaks of age that disappear into that full dark head of hair, and if Jason ran his fingers through it he wonders how much flash of grey he’d get. More than he’d expected, probably. And that cottons him onto the wrinkles – crows’ feet that are deeper than he remembers around Bruce’s eyes, grey stubble and deeper lines etched into his mouth. The frown lines he _does_ recognize intimately, but not the way Bruce’s eyebrows furrow inward the longer they stare at each other a room away.

The old man is…old. Older. Aging. It’s the most innocuous, inane thing to fixate on, and Jason can’t quite stop. It hadn’t been that long since they’d met face to face, had it? Couldn’t have been. And this barely even counted, considering the name he’d used to stroll inside. But – no. News feeds, re-rolls of interviews where the polish had to be pristine – or only with full cowl on, Jason really hadn’t come across him in person. Not since.

Since….

“Quite the undertaking.” Bruce’s voice jars him out of his thoughts. He’d half expected a thick inner-city accent, maybe Batman’s aggressive register. He’s not using the lighter, absent-minded Brucie Wayne voice either. It’s just Bruce. Jason shouldn’t be able to bristle and settle at the same time, but as always Bruce pushes him to impossible extremes.

“Is that all you’ve got?” Jason asks. Steady. Easy. He can do the distracted thing, too. Bruce doesn’t have to be worth his time. Even if Jason had him brought up here – Bruce had been asking after him. Malone had. Let that be the reason. “I’m a busy man. Business to run, people to manage – I’m sure you don’t understand.”

“Managing people?” Bruce asks, drier than sand.

“Running a business,” Jason retorts, glass-cuttingly sharp.

“Well, you do take hostile takeover to new definitions.” Jason scoffs, and doesn’t protest Bruce’s advance and absolutely doesn’t go to meet him. By the time he’s grinning with his teeth, Bruce is just past the line of where Jason wants him. A single step inside his space, for all that he’s more than arm’s length away.

“I’d argue I’m bringing the old definition back.”

He really does have grey in his stubble. Salt-and-pepper, all over, and still Bruce stands larger than life. Taller, wider, looming over the masses of his city and dictating arbitrary rules that lead to-

Jason breathes out sharply through his nose. Not the time. Not that fight. They’d already had it. Objectively, Jason had lost. But he was a byproduct of this city, of Bruce’s city, and the old man might not like that he’s proof-positive that Batman’s way isn’t the Grail of methods but Jason wouldn’t leave until the whole damn place was nuked. Would rebuild from the ground up, without the Bat’s looming shadow, and see exactly what Gotham could make of itself if it had half a chance.

Until then, Jason didn’t have to waste time on their plans and conspiracies and all-seeing Eye. Shouldn’t shred the energy.

“What are you doing, Jason?”

“Like, currently or-“

 _“Jason_.”

“No,” Jason shivers, feels the chill and pinprick dance of needles down his spine mix poorly with the heat of adrenaline that unfurls in his chest and spikes out. Shifts his weight so he doesn’t uncross his arms and end with flexed fingers in a tell. “No. You don’t get to do that. Not here. Certainly not now.”

“You are making a mistake,” Bruce growls. “So many you’re drowning in them. Why can’t you just-“

“Just what?” Jason snarls, pushing off the desk. He’s closer to Bruce’s height than he thought. It’s always jarring, meeting him on any kind of level. For the first time Jason thinks it might be jarring for Bruce too, watching his jaw shut abruptly and then the muscle tic as he clenches his teeth. They’re face to face, head to head, and neither of them are armed but it feels closer to detonation than it has since – “Just _what_ ,” Jason repeats. “What do you think I should _just do_ , B? Take another extended break for medical leave? Did you go around thinking that was _vacation_ and that I got to hole up in some villa out of the country?”

“Of course not. You were supposed to go to the hospital. You were out of-“

“Control,” Jason sneers. “You wanted me down so you could throw me in a cage I couldn’t claw out of.”

“I didn’t say that,” Bruce denies, clipped and unyielding.

“Say it? You’ve been _screaming_ it at me for months,” Jason punctuates the words, fingers jabbing hard once into Bruce’s chest. The man’s still all brick, but Jason’s brain still fixates on it. Puzzling out a strange break in his expectations while his mouth keeps moving, “The only way this ends. The only way you’re ever going to be satisfied with any scrap of me is by putting me back down in the dirt with the worms. It’s the only place I belong to you, right?”

“Jason stop. That’s not what I want and you know it.”

“Know it – the only thing I know is that I’m your walking nightmare. Screw you, Bruce, I’m _thriving_ and you’re gonna have to slit more than just my throat to-“

 _“Enough!_ ”

Gravity shift.

His back aches, shoulders to hips, and Jason stares blankly at his office chair, arm pinned awkwardly and wrist smarting from the force of Bruce knocking it away from a jab. That damn ring scraped his forearm in the process, and now the whole thing stings. Bruce is pressing him down, glaring down at him when Jason rolls his head slowly to look up, and his brain clicks over with two drowsy realizations:

Bruce looks tired.

He isn’t wearing any armor.

The old man is…getting old.

“God,” Bruce breathes, and Jason stares with distant fascination while Bruce’s expressions slide through a prism of negativity. Anger, frustration, disappointment, irritation, back to anger and then something that’s too close to failure for Jason to accept. Resignation. Bruce doesn’t have the right to be _resigned_ at him. “That’s not what I want, Jason.”

Bruce’s eyes close for a two-count, two entire seconds of eternity where Jason can only feel his fingers tingle with the urge to punch – to wrap around his throat. His eyes are a blue storm when he opens them again, too dark. Jason has no hope of seeing himself. “You never listen.”

“Listen,” Jason repeats blankly. Bruce is still hovering over him, and Jason thinks he can see some strands of silver at his hairline after all. “You want me to listen. To you?” He doesn’t realize he’s reaching up until Bruce catches his wrist, grip sure and not-quite bruising. He looks almost wary, and despite the slow thrum of anger that’s trying to simmer alive under his skin he feels his lips quirk up. Watches Bruce’s eyebrows sink a little closer and the familiar twist of his frown come together. “When have I ever? That’s why I kicked it the first time, right? According to you.”

Pain – again, lancing through Bruce’s face like he isn’t always on guard.

“I didn’t mean that, either,” Bruce says, like his words hold any kind of weight at all. His grip loosens on Jason’s wrist though, and Jason laughs a dry, humorless roll of sound that forms and lodges in his throat. Bruce’s hair is as thick as it feels, though. He’s not in danger of balding anytime soon. Jason could pull, try and rip some of it out, but he leans up instead. Snarls and jerks when Bruce abruptly attempts to back up like he has any right to retreat.

“You mean everything you say.” Jason mutters, which might be an unfair standard, and continues, “You plan everything you do,” which absolutely is not. “So, if all you have to offer me right now is some stupid stock phrases that don’t mean anything at all, that won’t mean anything tomorrow, then shut up. Just – God, stop talking to me.”

It’s possibly a suicide attempt, kissing Bruce in that moment. Except Bruce would never kill him, despite his own best efforts, and for all that Jason has no idea what he’s doing he won’t deny a visceral satisfaction at feeling Bruce freeze against him.

“Jas-“

“Shut. Up.” Jason hisses, biting his lips roughly and pulling back only far enough to glare at him. “Or get the hell out of my club. _Malone_.”

Bruce looks at him like he’s crazy. Jason feels a little crazy, so that’s fair, but if he is it is firmly Bruce’s fault. So, he tightens his grip in Bruce’s hair, tugs and twists and gasps at the heat of Bruce’s mouth, the scrape of his teeth as he’s shoved back again. Pushed down hard onto his desk with Bruce’s hands at his hips. There’s nothing safe about this. Nothing sane about this.

It’s exactly what Jason wants. He spreads his legs and feels a bit of the stretch just getting them around Bruce’s hips, and jumps a little when Bruce pulls at his waist to press him in close. No armor. Bruce isn’t wearing any armor. Anywhere. Walked into Jason’s club, into the _Iceberg Lounge_ with some cheap gaudy bling and a goddamn button-up.

He feels like he should have cottoned on to Bruce being goddamn _certifiable_ before now.

“Jason-“

“What part,” Jason grunts, and Bruce drops only to an elbow when he’s pulled down, “of shut up are you not hearing?” Bruce gives him that frustrating, constipated look again. All tense and worried, trying to puzzle out the threat, but before Jason can punch him scarred fingers dip under his shirt and slide up. Drag his clothes with him.

“You first,” Bruce says, like a _catty bitch_. Jason doesn’t get the chance to mouth off, because Bruce takes his mouth again with a wicked tongue that seizes control of Jason’s body, and he’s only sort of conscious of the tug at his hips while his belt is expertly undone. It’s maybe one of his biggest mistakes of the night, letting Bruce use his belt to tie his wrists together. It’s maybe the sloppiest restraint of Bruce’s life. Jason makes no attempt to escape it.

Instead, he devotes his attention to rolling his hips, digs his heels against the back of Bruce’s knees to drive him in against the desk. When Bruce lets him breathe, it’s just to suck rough marks into his neck, hot thick fingers pressing into the muscle at his chest and working out the tension his mouth is stubbornly building. Never at rest, some guys.

“Lube.”

“What, you want to get down and dirty right away?” Jason asks. Bruce looks unimpressed.

“You wanted to be wined and dined?”

No. No, he really didn’t. Bruce read the answer all over him, snorts and tugs at the waistband of his jeans roughly enough that Jason skids along the desktop, ass bared abruptly and cold only to jolt at the heavy, loud slap of Bruce’s palm against his ass. It _stings._ “Lube, Jason.”

“Ah, screw you,” Jason mutters. Twists his arms up almost frantically and tugs upside down at one of the drawers of the desk to feel blindly for the small tube. He glances down in time to see Bruce’s bemused expression and bare his teeth before he throws the lube at his face. Bruce catches it. He also leans back and rips Jason’s pants down to his fucking calves in one hard yank that drags Jason’s entire body, leaves his thighs stinging and his cock jumping in half-hard attention.

The burn is nothing short of gratifying. He wishes Bruce had left the sting with his hands. He doesn’t see Bruce lube his fingers up, just feels the wet-warm press of fingers brush his balls, slip back and up and then the firm slide against his hole. The press in hurts, but it’s not dry, and Jason pushes back against the touch with demanding intent. Bruce, for once in his life, concedes.

Jason doesn’t let the stretch be easy. Writhes and rocks on the desk until Bruce has to pin him down and trap his legs against the front of the desk, brace an arm over him, stare him down with that deep furrow on his brow and shift of concerned wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. There’s over a decade between them, and Jason is internalizing every second of it until two fingers press in and curl and _drag_.

“Fuck,” Jason breathes, “fuck – me, yes, damn you.”

“You really are raw, aren’t you?” Bruce murmurs, voice fuzzy and low somewhere around his jaw. Jason thinks blearily about jerking his chin down and grinding it into Bruce’s hair, and gets distracted mid-attempt by a spicy chemical scent – cologne. Not the usual, which is – “Daydreaming already?”

Jason absolutely isn’t ready for the third digit. He bucks and then freezes, feeling compressed and winded and growling through his teeth to cover the thin sound of the whine. Heat – not from Bruce but pulsing inside of him, unfurls from his core and sends shivers to his limbs. “Too easy for you?” No. Yes. Could it be both? Jason grunts, blinks the burn away from his eyes and lifts his head enough to glare when Bruce leans up. He shifts to try and get his elbows under him, meet Bruce and roll into him fueled by spite but doesn’t get that far.

The arm over his chest pushes down harder, and Bruce’s eyes are a dark storm again, murky with things Jason doesn’t want to and doesn’t know how to name. For a moment, a second, Bruce’s fingers (thick, rough, he would think it was four if the asshole hadn’t deliberately pressed each one in and curled them individually) still. His voice softens in a way that ignites all the wrong instincts. “You really want this?”

Nowhere to run, with his pants down and his front pinned and Bruce taking up all the space and spitting out heat above him. His hand clamps down on the back of Bruce’s neck instead, and he curls his fingers around the edge of the desk to drag himself lower, push in against Bruce’s hand with a hiss and kick a leg free so he can wrap it around Bruce’s waist, dig his heel somewhere against Bruce’s back. He snaps his teeth in front of Bruce’s face like a dog, all warning.

Naturally, Bruce leans toward him rather than flinch away.

“This way is going to hurt,” Bruce tells him flatly. Jason’s grin is lazy, he can almost see himself in Bruce’s eyes. He knows it will, he’s still tight and fighting Bruce’s fingers – because it is pathologically impossible for him to not take every one of Bruce’s actions as a challenge. He knows it will, because that’s what he wants. Proof positive of what he has always known, and what Bruce has never failed to show him since his return.

“What else is new?” Jason drawls. Bruce’s expression shutters, and the entire feel of him goes cold except where they’re touching which is still entirely too hot. The pull of his fingers out of him is rough, the snap of the lube loud (where’d he even-) and the shift of Bruce’s arm is strange until he realizes Bruce is letting it hover closer to his throat as a threat.

“Stubborn,” Bruce growls. “You’re always so damn-“

Jason might have screamed, when Bruce interrupts himself and thrusts in. All in. One go. No fucking takebacks now. He might have screamed but he can’t say, could never, because he doesn’t see anything – can’t breathe as his body locks up against the press. Bruce is. Is.

_Oh. Oh, God._

_Don’t move. Please, for the love of-_

_Oh. Fff-_

“Breathe.” He…can’t? He can’t. There’s no air to take in, the world is dark, and everything is hot and there’s nowhere to – “ _Breathe_ ,” is an order in his ear. But it’s the press of teeth, hard and firm and slow scraping under his Adam’s apple – biting down high above it – that unlocks something in his chest, and he shudders back to life. _“Good._ ”

Was it? Is it? Jason’s world has narrowed down to cheap fucking shirt under his fingers, the pulse of Bruce’s cock that might be Bruce’s unaffected fucking heartbeat as far as Jason knows, and the sharp orders whispered to his ear. Dealing with anything as abstract as ‘good’ was beyond him, and he was pretty sure Bruce hadn’t lubed up his cock. Felt instead like he had a hand shoved in that was taking all his words away, which is impressive because he can feel Bruce’s hand on his hip and the other curled against the back of his head, twisting his hair in a parody of Jason’s own handling.

“Three hands,” Jason breathes shakily. “Are you real?”

Bruce’s teeth scrape over his lips, his tongue slips in without an invitation, and Jason bites more for the principal of the matter than because he doesn’t want it. He sucks afterward, wonders if that’s a kind of apology, and then feels the scrape of Bruce’s cock when the man shifts to rock his hips. And it is a _scrape_ – his body was fucked the second Bruce took him.

Jason has never been more grateful for Bruce’s overkill habit in his second life.

“You have no technique at all, do you?” Bruce asks, mouth hot and wet against his cheek.

“ _Nnnnaa.._ ” Jason moans back, world narrowed down to the maddening little circles rubbed into the back of his head, the hot brand of Bruce’s palm on his hip and pressing down, and the gradual shift of Bruce’s cock as the older man evidently debates what the term ‘fucking’ entails.

It might be fair. Jason’s body is kind of debating what it means, too.

“Relax,” Bruce murmurs. Jason bites under his jaw and leaves a mark. Bruce snaps his hips forward and for all that it couldn’t have been more than in inch it burns for an eternity. The ripple works from him inside out, clenching down on Bruce and scrabbling at his back, head falling more solidly into Bruce’s palm to make the sound that wants to escape him easier when he feels like he doesn’t actually tighten around anything at all. He’s clutching at Bruce, and Bruce has stretched him to goddamn capacity. He can’t make his body do anything more than yield, than take it, and after another moment of grinding that’s intimate enough to choke on, he does just that.

His arms tremble on their slide down Bruce’s shoulders to rest against his biceps, and if he shuts his mouth he’s going to burn up from the inside out, and he’s never heard the kinds of sounds – the moans and whimpering mewls and keening little _cries_ – that come from his own mouth come from anyone before. Bruce has full control of his head, by virtue of being the only reason it’s still upright, and Jason blinks wetly at him with every shift. He might say something, Jason can’t tell, he’s too busy drowning.

In the feel of it. In the way Bruce is looking at him. Peeling him away inch by inch and managing to look like he’s handling with care as he rips Jason’s apart – over and over and over again. He’s being hit. He’s being cut down. Belittled. Exposed. Weakened and culled like he’d tried to do to so many, except this time Bruce isn’t letting him fall. Won’t give him the privilege. Holds him together tight enough that Jason’s chest burns.

It’s goddamn cleansing. The rush of heat and pressure and how openly Bruce devours him even as he maddeningly maintains control. For one moment, Bruce looks almost like he’s in pain. Drops his head and lets his hips stutter against Jason’s while Jason floats on a tidal wave of tension.

 _“Jason_ ,” Bruce curses. Hoarse, rough, like maybe the granite has chipped and cracked after all, “ _God. You-“_ and Jason moans again, lets his arms fall and his leg slide down to be limp against the desk, something hot splatters over his stomach and then Bruce is biting him again and sucking hard and the snaps of his hips is loud and pushes through and Jason’s body just-

He blinks, dazed, throbbing hard deep inside with a demanding ache along his front. The ache gets worse as Bruce pulls out of him, and Jason lets his head thud against the desk for a few deep breaths before he rolls it forward and looks down at himself.

His stomach has a smattering of white, drooling still from the tip of his cock, and he jumps at the catch of Bruce’s cock against his rim – the head dragging against the abused ring of muscle. Red scratches dance behind Jason’s eyes in flashes of sensation as he pops out, and the pressure lessens, his hole twitching and walls throbbing as they clench weakly around nothing at all and the tickle of Bruce’s cum is – oh.

Oh, well.

…shit.

His thighs are burning. His shoulder aches. There’s a bruise forming on his hip, he can see it, and he barely has the energy to keep his eyes open. The front of his desk must be a painting, judging from the look on Bruce’s face, and he grins slowly. Licks his lips and chases the bruising tingle Bruce left behind, bites down on his lower lip and moans softly.

“Jason,” Bruce says – whispers? Jason slants him a look, mostly dressed in ruined clothes, looking not like himself at all and exactly like himself in every way that cuts. There’s still hunger there, too close to the surface, and he can tell the moment Bruce realizes he sees it because he turns away sharply. All back-stiffed and angry. His fingers tremble.

Jason tastes blood. Licks his lips and grins wider.

“Thanks for visiting the Iceberg Lounge,” Jason murmurs, right before Bruce can fully escape the office altogether. He chuckles at the slam of the door, thinks about greying temples and wrinkled eyes and stares up at the ceiling. Sees past it, to the dark night and the symbol that will doubtlessly paint the sky again tonight.

_Come back anytime._


End file.
